Officially, Jake is fired from his temp job of shepherding drunk delegates due to his role in the George George incident, but, since The Blackbirding Pressgang Agency still can't find anyone else to fill the last overnight position, they send Jake out again. Phil Intheblank, Jake's contact at the temp agency, says to tell anyone who asks that Jake's name is "Hank".
So, "Hank" shows up for work again at the Democratic National Convention. The security people by this point are used to seeing him so they just wave him on through the checkpoints. Jake sits in a bland hotel conference room and waits for a call, alongside a few of his fellow temps. Calls come in gradually and only Jake and one other temp, an elderly mustachioed white guy, are left. After finishing the newspaper, the old man gets up from his seat and starts pacing the room. "Do you want some more coffee, Hank?" he asks Jake, er, "Hank".
"Hank" nods and the old man disappears and a few minutes later returns with two cups of coffee. "Any calls, Hank?" he says.
"Nope," Jake says, taking the cup of coffee, "Thanks."
"Wait until the bars close, then I bet we'll get a bunch of calls. So what do you do normally, Hank?"
"I'm unemployed," Jake says.
"Yeah?" the old man says, his mustache dripping coffee, "I'm retired. The company I worked for skipped out on my pension plan though and the government's only paying half the obligation, so I have to do shit like this once in a while. So are you married or what, Hank?"
"Uh, no, I'm single. I kind of have a girlfriend though. Well, sort of, she dumped me, but I think we're getting back together."
"Huh? What does she do, Hank?"
"She's a waitress. She's also a writer."
"A writer! What kind of writer, Hank?"
"Um, she has a blog."
"Oh, that's good. She's not a poet, is she, Hank?"
"Uh, no. Why?"
"One of my ex-wives was a poet. It was a nightmare. I couldn't take a shit without her writing a villanelle about it. I really don't want the rest of the world knowing my private life, but she stripped me bare. After she was done mining me for material, she left me for another poet. He could have her. They can write sarcastic sonnets about one another. Never marry a poet, Hank."
"OK," Jake says, "I'll try not to."
"The only thing worse is a Goddamn novelist. At least no one reads poetry. I wouldn't want to be a character in a novel, and have all those book club assholes analyze what was wrong with me."
The phone rings and the old man picks it up. "No, you've got to call the hotel for that. That's not in our job description. Call the front desk," he says and hangs up, "Some schmuck from New Hampshire locked himself out of his room. I'm surprised they don't call us to come wipe their asses, Hank."
The room is silent, and Jake takes a drink of coffee.
"So, what do you like to do, Hank?" the old man says.
"Uh, I do a blog too. It's about professional wrestling."
"Wrestling, huh? You know that shit's fake, right, Hank?"
"Hank" suspects it will be a long night.
Blog Love Omega Glee is a novel by Wred Fright about two bloggers who fall in love while the world falls apart, which is being serialized on his blog. To start reading from the beginning or read another installment, please visit Blog Love Omega Glee Central on WredFright.Com. If you like what you've read, or you've read all of Blog Love Omega Glee and want more Fright, then please read his first novel, which is available in print and as an ebook.
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Dear Fellow Earthlings,
The Kindle version of *The Irish Hungarian Guide to the Domestic Arts,*which is authored by your humble hostess--the Irish Hungari...
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